


I'll Be Home At Last

by generally



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: AU, M/M, i probably should've written sebastien raine into this but oh well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generally/pseuds/generally
Summary: “Okay. Let’s look at the art,” said Patrick, easygoing, like David hadn’t just threatened to kick him out of the building not ten seconds ago.Something tightly wound inside of David loosened its grip, just a little. “Okay.”(David runs an art gallery in New York. After he makes a humiliating discovery, he seeks the help of a certain financial analyst.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	1. The Hand That Feeds You

**Author's Note:**

> Schitt's is over and there's a gaping void in my heart. Here, have this gallerist David AU!

“This one’s crooked.”

David stared at the painting on the blank wall, its sturdy gold-plated frame reflecting the late morning sun in a really gorgeous way. He’d designed that frame, you know, and had his framer custom-make it. The detailing on the corners drew the mind’s eye to the scrolls and leaves of ancient Greek columns, which was relevant since the painting within the frame featured a Venus-inspired nude, with thick dark curls like a halo crowning her head. The gold frame was an extension of her heavenly aura. It was a perfect marriage of artistic intent and natural complementation. Objectively speaking.

“I think it’s fine.”

The artist (who went by Blaine Whitacre in modern art circles, but David knew from the exhibit contract forms that his real name was Gary Smith, which…ew) gave David a pitying look. “Come on, you don’t see it? Go hold up a level and tell me it’s not two degrees off.” God, the unkempt goatee with the unwashed Leto wannabe hair was _not_ a winning combination. Not David’s type in the slightest – well, except for that one barista at the good coffee shop by Penn Station, but that’s beside the point.

“Um,” David said, holding a hand out towards the painting and turning to face Blaine, putting on his best passive-aggressive customer service smile. He hoped it said _I know how to use a level, thank you very much,_ but he’d settle for _eat glass!_ “It’s fine. More than fine. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s fabulous. Your linework is…impeccable.”

Blaine waved him off in disgust, like he just smelled something rotten, and David immediately felt like a groveling handmaiden for throwing in the cheap compliment. And let’s be clear, David Rose was not one to grovel _._

“I’m not paying you to tell me my linework is good. I’m paying you to hang my paintings straight. Or was that not clear?”

David just stood there for a moment, frozen in shock of the fucking _audacity_ , before exhaling sharply and wringing his hands. “I- yeah. It was clear.”

Oh my God. His dad would be chewing him out right now if he could see this. _You can’t let the client walk all over you, David,_ he’d nag. _You have to stand up for yourself! Let him know you’re the one in charge. He’s coming to you for a service, not the other way around!_ David wished he could tell the little Johnny on his shoulder that while that last bit was technically true, he was very much depending on this commission cut to help finance that Bulgari bag he’d been eyeing. So, you know, it was more of a two-way street.

Blaine adjusted the collar of his ratty corduroy jacket with a huff and turned his attention to the next painting down the line, the soles of his patent-leather shoes making a hollow _click_ against the polished cherrywood floor with each step. He probably bought those stupid shoes at a boutique thrift shore in SoHo for way too much. David bet they still carried dog shit bacteria around from their previous life.

“And that gold frame looks cheap, by the way,” Blaine snapped as an afterthought, not even looking at David while he spoke. “Looks like it’s from Hobby Lobby. I don’t want my guests looking at Hobby Lobby frames while they drink Dom Perignon on Friday night, can you imagine?” he scoffed, running a hand through his Crisco-slick hair.

Un-fucking-believable. Like. David did _not_ shine this place spotless, whitewash the walls, retack the hooks, spend nearly a grand last week on three custom frames because Blaine wasn’t finished with those pieces yet (and he hasn’t even agreed to pay him back), hang the art, _and_ organize a flawlessly elegant exhibit opening party just to be told by some “Passion of the Christ” extra that it all looked…cheap _._

Suddenly the nagging spirit of Johnny Rose came to possess him after all in a burst of self-preservation, but before he could let his hotheadedness get the best of him and say something like _Mmh, I don’t know, can you imagine my Berluti-clad foot up your asshole?,_ the bell above the front door chimed sweetly.

David whipped around towards the door, his hand immediately coming up to shield his eyes from the relentless New York summer sun. “Sorry, we’re closed for setup,” he called to the guy who just walked in before turning back to Blaine, eyes stinging.

“Yeah, try not to let anyone touch my work while it’s here, would you?” said Blaine disdainfully, and David wondered what kind of unhinged behavior Blaine imagined his patrons exhibited in here on a normal day. “That better be in the insurance policy.”

“Okay, I think we’re just about done here, hmm?” David said, squeezing his eyes shut and allowing himself just for a moment to imagine bonking Blaine on the head with a nice firm crowbar. “I’ll hang the chartreuse study and the Pollock-inspired later today. And I’ll call the caterer. She might be able to throw in those mini stuffed mushrooms after all, ‘cause I remembered she owes me a small favor from-”

“It’s not Pollock-inspired,” Blaine interrupted.

David blinked. “Sorry, what?”

He literally _rolled his eyes_ at David, like the leading girl in a teen rom-com, and _not_ a cute one like Andie or Cher. “Just because the composition is fragmented doesn’t mean it’s derivative of Pollock. And I take offense to that, you know. I mean, Pollocks have no soul. They’re completely devoid of narrative.”

A bold claim coming from a guy who had slapped four shades of yellow onto a canvas and had the nerve to call it a ‘chartreuse study,’ not to mention price it for more than a Tiffany bracelet.

“Um…okay. Apologies. So I’ll see you Friday morning for final prep?”

“Yeah yeah, Friday. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.” Then, to David’s pleasant surprise, Blaine reached into his pocket and fished out a wad of cash, held together by a rubber band. “And this should cover the frames.”

David took it from him, allowing himself to get a good look at it. He certainly didn’t live paycheck-to-paycheck, that was for sure, but it wasn’t often that he got to hold this much physical cash in his hands at once. His cuts usually came through direct deposit. “Oh. Well, you’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Okay, well. Now you did.”

Right before he was about to pocket the cash, he noticed a little piece of paper sticking out from the center of the fold. He drew the paper out, squinting at the tiny near-illegible script written on it.

“This is a phone number.”

“It is.”

“But I already have your number.”

“You have my work number. This is my personal number. It’s a burner phone,” Blaine explained nonchalantly, running a hand through his greasy-ass hair in a way he probably thought was seductive and mysterious. “I get a new one once a year. I don’t like people from my past having access to the current version of myself."

David pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully, trying to conceal the fact that he thought that was possibly the most pretentious thing he’d ever heard anyone say. And he lived in _Tribeca_. And had _Moira Rose_ for a mother.

“Well, as my mom always said whenever I lost my phone in high school: ‘Cell phones don’t grow on trees, David, and neither does Xanax.’” Now that he was recounting it as an adult, he realized that was kind of a fucked-up thing to say to your kid.

But Blaine laughed at that stupid Moira-ism, like actually laughed _._ “That’s funny. You’re pretty funny.”

“I, uh…thanks,” David hesitated.

Blaine nodded, a tiny smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Call me if you need anything.”

David inhaled sharply, patting the wad of cash before pocketing it. “Mmkay, but earlier you said it was like a ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ sort of situation, so like…” But it was too late, Blaine was already almost out the door.

What the flying fuck just happened? David hadn’t seen someone’s attitude turn around that fast since last year, when Alexis threw a truly spectacular tantrum because her Hot Foreign Boyfriend of the Month took some other girl to Fiji instead of her, before making it up to her the next week by whisking her away to Aruba. Where was David’s all-expenses-paid exotic island vacation? Where was his Hot Foreign Boyfriend? Why did he always attract the narcissistic and mentally unstable?

He closed his eyes, feeling the warm sun on his cheek and forearm, and did some square breathing while focusing very, very hard on thinking calming thoughts. _Brunch at Cafe Tropical with Stevie. A good critic review. Lavender bath bombs._

“David Rose, right?”

 _Fuck,_ he nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he was met with a guy – the same guy who walked in a few minutes ago – in a blue button-down and a pair of jeans that David could only assume were from an outlet mall or a very nice flea market. His hair was trimmed neat. Very “stockbroker on the weekend”-looking.

“Yes? May I _help_ you?” he demanded, smoothing out the front of his sweater. And yeah, that came off a bit harsh, but could you blame him? His body was in fight-or-flight mode.

The guy didn’t seem fazed, though. He just smiled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. It was a kind smile. David didn’t see that sort of smile very often in this line of work, it occurred to him then. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It’s nice to meet you, David. I’m Patrick Brewer.”

David nodded and held out his hand for Patrick to shake, trying his best to look like a sane, functioning member of society. “Nice to meet you too. Um, I hate to do this, but we’re closed right now. I think I actually told you that. Before. When you walked in.”

Patrick drew his hand away from David’s and crossed his arms. He had a firm handshake. Why did David feel the need to make that mental note? Whatever. “Well, the door was open.”

“Okay. But I _told_ you _verbally_ that we were closed, and yet you’re still standing here, so. I’m not exactly sure what’s not adding up for you.”

Patrick put on a look of concern. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that your hours on the door said eleven to five. And the door was…open. So.”

David was getting the feeling he was being mocked. He did not like to be mocked. “Okay, um. Let’s try this again: _may I help you?”_

“Actually, yes,” Patrick said, reaching into the back pocket of his $60 Levis to reveal a little pad of paper with its own pen attached. “I’m, uh, a financial analyst with Schitt Properties. We-”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘shit properties?’”

“S-C-H-I-T-T. Unfortunate name, I know. Anyway, I’ve been going around the block surveying retail spaces to determine their profitability in relation to the square footage, state of the amenities, what have you.” He held up the notepad and gave it a little wave. “Been taking some notes on your place while you were talking to…that guy.”

Something about that process struck David as shady, at the very least. He wondered if this was how elaborate identity theft schemes happened. “ _First_ of all, I’ll have you know _that guy,_ ” he put up air quotes, “is a client of mine. This is his exhibit setup that you’re crashing, by the way. And second of all, there must’ve been a mix-up,” he continued, with a waving hand gesture meant to encompass the whole space. “This isn’t retail. It’s an art gallery.”

Patrick just looked at him, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. “Right. And is it or is it not true that folks pay you to have their art displayed here, which in turn is sold to others for profit?”

“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. _I’m_ not the one doing the selling. The _artists_ do the selling. I just rent them the gallery space for a certain amount of time and I get a commission from it. And now that I’m saying it out loud, I actually do see your point now.”

“Oh, do you?” Patrick replied brightly, and David felt mocked again. _Mocked,_ by a man who looked more like the Pillsbury Doughboy than a real human person.

“Uh-huh. But let’s circle back to that cute lil’ notebook of yours, what- what exactly are you going to do with that information? About my gallery?”

“I, ah,” Patrick began, glancing down at the notebook and back up at David. “I compile all the different data points and they get put into a spreadsheet on the computer. That way we can see stats for multiple properties at once. And the computer calculates the profitability quotients for each space automatically. The magic of Excel,” he deadpans, doing a fairly impressive jazz hand with his free hand.

David’s eyebrows practically met his hairline. “A _spreadsheet_.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So you came in here _uninvited,_ while we were _closed_ –”

“The door was open.”

“–to _take_ _notes_ about my art gallery, for a _spreadsheet._ ”

“That’s correct.”

David took a moment to just stand there and, for lack of a better word, pout. “Well...that doesn’t seem very legal, Patrick.”

“Oh, but it is, David,” he answered breezily, something subtle yet mischievous dancing behind his hazel eyes. Oh Jesus, now David was singing that Kelly Clarkson song in his head. It was a great song, he had to admit, and Patrick did have nice – _no! Stop thinking about this man’s stupid eyes! And Kelly Clarkson!_ “You don’t own this building, so lucky for me, I’m not bound to you by non-disclosures or privacy laws. All the information I’m collecting is public. Totally legal.”

David could feel his face contort as he commanded himself not to go ballistic. This morning has already been way too much to handle. “I see. However, _un_ luckily for you, it is also totally legal for me to ask unruly patrons who are trying to _phish_ information from me about my gallery to leave the premises.”

Patrick shook his head and gave a short breathy laugh, and somehow that made David feel worse. “Unruly? Well, I wouldn’t- I’m not phishing anything from you. Do all your patrons receive this VIP treatment?”

“Yes they do, as long as they’re actually here to, I don’t know, look at the art.”

Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but let out a big exhale instead. He took a moment to put the notepad back in his pocket, his eyes not leaving David’s.

“I could be here to look at the art.”

Oh. David didn’t expect that. “Um. Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s look at the art,” said Patrick, easygoing, like David hadn’t just threatened to kick him out of the building not ten seconds ago.

Something tightly wound inside of David loosened its grip, just a little. “Okay.”

They looked at the art. Patrick stood in front of every painting with his hands in his pockets and listened attentively as David explained each piece. He always liked talking to his guests about the work on display, but this time it was more of a method acting exercise for him than anything; he really had to get inside Blaine’s borderline sociopathic head in order to beef up what little substance his artwork had.

“And I’m pretty sure he said this one is about, like, the queer experience? And the man and the woman holding hands represent, um, how gay people internalize heteronormativity. Which therefore affects their non-hetero relationships. I think.”

Quite frankly, David thought it was a bunch of bullshit. The average gay person isn’t going to look at a painting of a straight couple out of context and think _ah yes, my experience as a gay person,_ much less the average straight person. Try harder, Gary.

But Patrick was eyeing the canvas inquisitively, getting way too close, and David was about to tell him to take a step back, that painting costs more than your monthly rent when Patrick said softly, “I really like it.”

“Huh?”

“I said I really like it. It’s beautiful.”

Something about the earnestness in his voice threw David for a loop. But whatever. Patrick was just trying to be polite or win ally points or something.

“Um, it’s certainly a painting.”

After another beat, Patrick took a step back from the canvas and turned to David with bright eyes and a warm little smile. And just looked at him.

The uninterrupted eye contact was making David’s skin crawl. He felt like a bug under a microscope. “What?” he finally asked, but it came out a lot closer to a whisper than he’d intended.

“Nothing. I just, uh...this is a great space you have here, David.”

The compliment let him relax a little. Unsolicited praise had an almost sedative effect on him, like Valium. “Oh. Well, thanks. Lately I’ve kinda been wanting to expand beyond _just_ art, you know? ‘Cause like, I have friends who run their own clothing boutiques and make their own skincare products and stuff like that, and I think it would be cool to like, have them be able to bring some of their excess inventory here. And I’d display it out on the floor right there, and that way people can come in and look at those products _while_ they look at the art. And all the products would be under the brand of the gallery, which is also my brand. And I feel like people who come in that don’t want to actually _buy_ any art would definitely buy a bottle of moisturizer or like, a succulent or something so that they don’t feel guilty about coming in here knowing they’re not gonna buy anything expensive. And then afterwards, whoever made the product gets their cut of the sale, and I’d take a certain commission cut. So then it’s like, a sustainable model.”

David recognized far too late that he’d just nervous-rambled for about thirty seconds too long about something that Patrick probably didn’t even give a shit about. He felt even itchier than before.

But Patrick seemed impressed. “Wow. So you’ve put some thought into this, huh?”

“Yeah, just a little.”

Patrick laughed softly and brought a hand up toward his mouth, and _oh,_ that shouldn't be doing something for David but it kind of is. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Consolidating different local products under one brand. It’s...inventive.”

“Mmh. High praise, coming from someone with your clear financial know-how.”

“Do you have an idea of when that’s gonna kick off?”

“Um. Actually, I’m just like, in the moodboard stages of formulating a plan right now? So no. But ideally sometime this year.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any vendors confirmed?”

“Not. Not exactly. Again, I was meaning to, you know. Ask around.”

“Need any help?”

 _From you and your ill-fitting denim?_ David thought. _Please no._ “Actually, I think I’m good. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s gonna take a little too much explaining to get us on the same page with my...brand aesthetic,” he explained, giving an up-down glance to Patrick’s outfit. “I’m not a very, um, _collaborative_ thinker.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the brand. I’m asking if you need help getting started with paperwork. You know, filing for a resale certificate, filling out a clothing and footwear exemption form, plus an alcohol and tobacco license if that’s something you see yourself offering...”

“You know what?” David piped up, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his acid-wash jeans. “You, um, you really seem like you know what you’re talking about. With all this paperwork.”

“Well, I did work at the rotary office in my hometown for a while after college. Helping people file incorporation papers and permits and all that. I sort of had to be the expert for everybody else, so yeah, I guess I know a thing or two.”

“I see.” David paused to rack his brain for anything, _anything_ that would steer the conversation away from the flex-fest it had become. He’s been doing this gallery thing completely on his own for almost five years; he didn’t need to be talked down to about _paperwork._ “And...where would this hometown of yours be?”

“Ontario. But not anywhere exciting, we were pretty off the beaten path. My parents actually still have their house on Lake Superior that they built in ‘87. Beautiful little town, but...it’s little.”

“You’re Canadian.”

“Yup.”

“So am I.”

“Well, how about that! Where are you from?”

“Um, I was born in Toronto. But my mother was in show business, so we moved to L.A. when my sister and I were in elementary school.” He could still remember how he felt riding in the limo from the airport to their new estate, pressing his hands to the window and watching the palm trees whiz by on the busy boulevards. It’s been a while since he’d felt that sense of wonder. “Nothing better for the developing adolescent brain than living in L.A.”

“Oh yeah, your mother. She sounds like an interesting woman, from what I heard earlier. Something about cell phones and Xanax?”

“ _Okay,_ ” David said, holding out his hands. “Someone ought to tell you that eavesdropping is generally frowned upon. But yes. My mother is...an interesting woman.”

“Well, all parents have their quirks, I guess.”

“Oh, that’s a cute sentiment, but my mom’s quirks aren’t quirks. They’re full-blown delusions.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Patrick gave him another bemused smile, his tongue just barely poking through between his teeth, and David needed him to _stop doing that_ before he lost his mind.

Then there was a bit of an awkward pause before Patrick thankfully broke it. “Well hey, it was great to meet you. I’d love to talk more about helping you out with your expansion, if you’ll let me.”

 _If you’ll let me._ “I, um. I don't think that’ll be necessary,” David said in a way he really hoped came off as passive-aggressive and self-assured. “I think I can handle it.”

“Oh, okay. Well, if you change my mind, here’s my card,” Patrick said, fishing a business card out of the wallet pocket attached to the back of his phone. “Call me if you need anything or if you have any questions, okay?”

“Okay.” David took the card gingerly and glanced down at it. The bright red Schitt Properties logo was a little overwhelming to the eye, but underneath was printed PATRICK BREWER, ASSOCIATE ANALYST in a neat serif font. “Again, not necessary, but I guess I’ll call if I need...help.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you soon.”

“‘Kay. Bye.”

“Bye, David.”

Patrick gave him one last tight-lipped smile before heading for the door as David watched him go, still holding the business card in both hands. He made a left out the door and walked past the floor-to-ceiling window, looking back inside and throwing David a little wave before disappearing up 7th.

_If you’ll let me._

Fuck.

He pondered for a moment, then reached into his pocket to retrieve the slip of paper with Blaine’s cell number on it. As he typed the number into his phone contacts, he acknowledged that there were some healthy choices he could make in this rapidly unfolding choose-your-own-sexual-adventure plot, and there was a clearly unhealthy one. And he had a long, illustrious personal precedent of self-sabotaging decisions to uphold.

* * *

“Can I tell you something weird that happened to me today?”

“Maybe. As long as it’s actually weird.”

“Okay, so some guy came into the gallery today to take notes on the building.”

“What?”

“I said _some guy-_ ”

“No, I heard you. I meant what do you mean, ‘take notes on the building?’”

“That’s exactly what _I_ was wondering.” David, laying on his bed, did a little shimmy to flip over onto his stomach and put Stevie on speakerphone. Which proved to be an instant mistake; the Thai takeout he grabbed on his way home earlier was _not_ sitting well with him. “His name was Patrick. He said he’s a _financial analyst._ ”

“A _financial analyst._ ”

“ _Yeah_. And he was taking down information about my rental space to determine how profitable it is. I think?”

“How _profitable_ it is? So what, he’s trying to buy you out?”

“Honestly, that’s a strong possibility. He said he worked for a real estate company. It had some stupid name...oh. Schitt Properties.”

“Schitt Properties? David, that’s the company that offered to buy the hostel last year.”

Stevie owned the Rosebud, a cute little hostel near Central Park that was popular with college kids and solo travelers looking for the “real” New York experience, whatever the fuck that means. Stevie’s great-aunt Maureen had passed it down to her a couple years ago, so she’s had her hands full since then. David met her last April at a party hosted by one of his more “grungy” friends; Stevie had made him do a beer bong for the first time in his mortal life. He considered her to be his best friend.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Nope.”

“Oh _God_. Okay. So like. What does that mean, then? What does he _want?_ ”

“Calm down, calm down. What else did he say?”

“Oh, yeah. So he came in while I was setting up for Blaine-”

“Is that the douchey guy that looks like Jared Leto?”

“The very same. And that’s a _whole_ other thing, remind me to tell you later. Anyway, so he came in, and he said he was going around surveying retail spaces. And he’s doing that so he can compile all the data into a spreadsheet that tells him which spaces in the city are the most profitable.”

“Wait, what? How would he know how profitable they are just by coming in and looking at them?”

“Does it _look_ like I would know? But yeah, then we got to talking and I showed him Blaine’s art. And then I told him about the consignment shop thing I want to do with the gallery. And he liked the idea.”

“It’s a good idea.”

“Thanks _._ And then he asked if I needed any _help._ With my _expansion._ And obviously I told him no, because he was sketching me out in the first place, but also because I’ve been running my own business for four and a half years now. I _think_ I can handle adding some sweaters and hand creams to my inventory. But he gave me his business card with his number anyway, so. I guess I have it if I need it. Which I won’t.”

There was a pause on Stevie’s end. “David.”

“What.”

“I have a question.”

“ _What._ ”

“How good-looking was this guy, would you say? On a scale of one to ten?”

“I don’t- why is that important?”

“Because it sounds to me like he’s a little less interested in how profitable your building is and a little more interested in something else.”

 _God,_ Stevie _._ “Well, _that’s_ a ridiculous thought.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

“Because the men of corporate America aren’t usually very interested in other men who run art galleries and listen to Mariah. At least not openly.”

“How do you know this one isn’t?”

David could feel a migraine coming on. “You know what? I think the more pressing issue at hand is whether I’m being _bought out_ in the near future or not. I feel like that’s something I should be worrying about right now.”

“David. Why would he offer to help you expand your business if he’s just going to buy you out?”

“Well, I don’t know! To make it more valuable, maybe?” He could feel himself getting all hysterical but he couldn’t stop. “And he said he was just going to help with the paperwork! Meaning he could _very_ easily take advantage of that access to my information and _boom!_ Suddenly my beautiful gallery belongs to some heartless real estate conglomerate and I’m left with _nothing!”_

“I think you’re jumping off the deep end here.”

“Well, can you blame me? You’re the one who brought it up!”

Stevie sighed into the receiver. “Look. I say if he wants to help you, let him help you.”

“And risk losing the beautiful art-slash-lifestyle empire I’m trying to build for myself? I don’t think so.”

“Fine, do whatever you want. All I’m saying is that if you _do_ go through with this expansion, you’re gonna have a lot on your plate. And if he’s offering his help, then it might be a good idea to take some of that work off your shoulders. I know you’re a bit of a lone wolf when it comes to work-”

“That’s a very nice way of saying ‘control freak.’”

“You said it, not me. My point is, don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“Yeah, but what if the hand also wants to secretly pull the rug out from under my feet, hmm? What then?”

“I think you’ve been listening to too many true crime podcasts.”

“Well, Karen and Georgia aren’t going to listen to themselves, Stevie.”

“Sure. I’m gonna let you go, some guests are walking up right now.”

“‘Kay. Talk soon.”

“Yup. And David?”

“Yeah?”

“Not everyone’s out to get you.”

“That’s what you think. Bye.”

“Bye.” The line went dead.

David locked his phone and tossed it onto his pillow, but he put too much force behind it and it ricocheted off the bed onto the floor with a clatter. Great.

He let himself lie there for a moment, trying to empty his mind like he does when he meditates, but his brain eventually settled on broadcasting the mental image of Patrick’s hand near his mouth on an endless loop. Good lord _._

It wasn’t until the sky outside got completely dark that he fished his phone out from between the bed and the nightstand, scrolled down to the W’s in his contacts, and hit “call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


	2. Paid to the Order

Whether it was the rattling of plates or the smell of freshly-brewed coffee that did it, either way he awoke to find himself alone in between some impressively high thread count sheets that smelled faintly of patchouli. His sensory memory of last night started coming back to him in waves.

“…Blaine?”

“In here.”

Shit. For all the shameless flirting he’d done in the past with other clients, he’d never gone _this_ far. It was a new low, even for David. Not even to mention that it had to be _this_ client, _God_. He felt oily all of a sudden.

Something in his brain was telling him to run, run far, far away from here, and he was already way ahead of himself. He practically scrambled out of bed, his limbs getting tangled in the patchouli sheets. Glancing quickly around the pristine, minimalist bedroom, he spotted his sweater, jeans, and underwear scattered on the floor next to a lamp that looked suspiciously phallic. He dressed himself as efficiently as he could, taking a moment to fix up the bedsheets to look presentable before grabbing his wallet and keys off the nightstand and heading down the hall toward the kitchen.

The kitchen matched the minimalist vibe of the bedroom, but the stove counter and the island were an absolute mess, cooking utensils and ingredient containers everywhere. Blaine was standing shirtless at the stovetop, whipping something up in a skillet that did _not_ smell promising, his bottom half covered only by what David could describe as a couture loincloth. He doesn’t even want to know where the hell he got his hands on such a hideous item of clothing, but he’s guessing the FIT workshop store on 25th and 8th.

He turns around when he hears David come into the room. "Hey. Want some eggs?"

He wasn't vegan, tragically, so he couldn't use that as an excuse to get out of eating whatever disaster was currently congealing in that pan. "Oh, no thanks. I mean, it sounds...they sound good. The eggs. But I gotta get going. There’s, uh, some business I need to take care of. At the gallery.” He wished he could jump into the skillet with those garlic-tainted chicken ovaries and burn himself up to a crisp. It would be a more dignified way to go out than this.

If David didn’t know any better, he’d think that Blaine actually looked kind of disappointed. “Oh. Well, cool. See you Friday morning.”

“Uh-huh, yep, Friday. I will...see you...then,” David word salad-ed by way of goodbye, feeling his insides crinkle like tissue paper more and more by the second. “Mmkay. Bye.”

“Wait,” Blaine said, low and dulcet, just as David had miraculously gotten his hand on the doorknob. “Isn’t there something you wanted to give me?”

_The cold shoulder and a swift phone number block, perhaps?_ David’s brain unhelpfully supplied as Blaine closed the space between them. “I...um…”

While David was miserably floundering, Blaine leaned down and kissed him, and hmm, okay, David could get used to this, even with the smelly eggs. And the loincloth. And the Blaine of it all.

When Blaine finally pulled back, David glanced up above his forehead and couldn’t help but postulate if he was going on Day 5 or 6 without shampoo. A very sexy thing to think about, you know, after someone has just put their mouth on your mouth in a non-lifesaving way. “Um. Well. Thanks for the _fun_ _night._ Sorry I can’t stay.”

“Don’t worry about it. See you in a couple days.” Blaine threw him a bad wink that really looked more like a blink, but David felt mildly flattered nonetheless. He turned his attention back to the skillet, and David took that opportunity to get the hell out.

It wasn’t that his exit strategy excuse was a _total_ lie. He really was headed for the gallery, even though he wasn’t usually open on Wednesdays. He wanted to see how far he could get with researching this paperwork that Patrick had been talking about, but first he had to find his initial paperwork from when he first got the place a few years prior. He knew there was a business license and a copy of the lease lying around somewhere in his tiny back office.

After a twenty minute’s taxi ride from the Lower East Side to Chelsea, he tipped the cabbie and stepped out onto the pavement in front of his beautiful little gallery, fishing his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door. Once inside, he hit the light on the adjacent wall and headed toward the back of the gallery, behind the huge freestanding display board that featured one of Blaine’s larger paintings: a still life of apples lying in a grassy field, rotten, with worms poking out of the vividly blackened fruit flesh. What it was supposed to be a commentary on, David had no idea and had no intention of ever finding out. 

His nostrils were met with a barrage of dust the moment he opened the door and flicked on the light. Okay, yeah, maybe he should be making better use of this closet-turned-office. And yeah, _maybe_ he should’ve taken the time to organize it sometime in the past four and a half years, because this floor-to-ceiling clutter was _not_ on brand with the minimalism kick David had been on lately _._ Nevertheless, he came here for a purpose, and if it took him all day to find those licenses, then so be it.

Luckily it only took 45 minutes of leafing through old papers and tossing junk mail into a spare garbage bag before he finally dug out a manila envelope labeled “Licenses/Permits 2015” from the bottom of a box full of endless other manila envelopes. Taking a seat on the floor, he took off the paper clip holding the folder together and opened it up, immediately blinking at the impossibly fine print on the top form. He briefly imagined an alternate universe in which he was in a career that required him to look at fine print all day - like accounting - and then recoiled at the thought.

He skimmed the packet, which happened to be his original lease agreement for the space that he signed that September. After he’d gotten through a paragraph about fire hazards and flipped to the last page, his eye was drawn to the signatures at the bottom - signatures plural. Huh, he only remembered having to sign once.

The first signature was his own. The second signature, on a line labeled “Guarantor,” was his dad’s.

What the fuck.

He shoved the lease agreement aside with shaky hands, quickly staking out the signatures on the next form in the stack. Again, to his horror, below his initial signature was Johnny Rose’s superfluous calligraphy on the guarantor line. On the form below _that_ one, there wasn’t even a space for David to sign. Just his dad.

Turning the form over, he noticed a smaller yellow slip sticking to the back. He peeled it off, nearly tearing the form in the process, and held it in his trembling fingers.

It was a page from one of his dad’s custom-printed booklets of purchase order receipts.

**PAID TO THE ORDER OF VERONICA LEE**

**ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED AND THREE DOLLARS AND 00/100**

**8 OCT 2015**

Ronnie Lee was one of his most loyal patrons from the very start. That was the exact amount she paid for three pieces at his gallery grand opening on that exact day.

_What the fuck._

Soon he was having trouble making out anything on the forms through the tears welling up in his eyes. He went through them so frantically he gave himself a paper cut on his sales privilege license, but he didn’t care. It was _Johnny’s_ sales privilege license, after all. He was gonna get as much blood on it as he goddamn wanted to.

At last he reached the bottom of the stack, sitting on the floor surrounded by papers smeared with his family’s control and influence and _money,_ and he realized that in nearly five whole years of work he had earned absolutely fucking nothing. 

David didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the speckles on the tile floor, but eventually he wiped his runny nose on his sweater sleeve and picked himself up. He had a caterer to call.

* * *

The thing about David’s upbringing was that it was always threatening to swallow him whole.

According to child psychologists, kids establish their sense of self through, well, being kids. Messing around with other kids, sure, but also watching cartoons on TV by themselves, playing with Tech Decks and Polly Pockets by themselves, poking around outside in the grass and dirt by themselves. But David can’t recall a single time growing up where the adults in his life ever trusted him to be completely and totally on his own.

Of course there was Adelina, his and Alexis’s nanny. From the time David was barely walking all the way through the day he left for NYU, she was always there to keep a watchful eye on him in the house. She called him down to the dining room for every meal, made his bed and kept his room tidy, helped him with his schoolwork (of course Alexis was never interested in joining those study sessions), and took him shopping for new clothes and shoes whenever he wanted. Not to even mention Dad’s secretary, Mom’s several wig handling-trained assistants, the family chauffeur, their personal chef, and the on-call maintenance guy with the lazy eye. If he were to fall, there was no shortage of arms to catch him.

But eventually, starting in his early teens, he decided he didn’t want to be caught anymore. He didn’t want to be coddled. Admittedly, growing up with such luxury was something he got used to very quickly, but most of the self-awareness that he’d gained with age was rerouted through anxiety and shame. He knew that none of the kids on the TV programs he watched lived like him. None of his friends at his private school lived like him. He didn’t want to eat artisanal PB&J sandwiches or wear a hot, stiff $200 child-sized suit to yet another one of his mother’s fundraising parties anymore. All he wanted was to feel some semblance of normal.

His subsequent attempts to experience that “normal” primarily meant begging his parents to let him go to public high school, choosing to go to college on the polar opposite end of the continent, and sneaking out of the house to go to warehouse raves with older kids he barely knew. Something about letting his body move to the beat of some mindless house music, with nothing in his head but a pounding bassline and a cocktail of party drugs, made him feel like no one could touch him. Not his parents, not his nanny, not the trust fund in his name, nothing.

Don’t get him wrong, he still enjoyed the finer things in life, but New York was the place that gave him his first taste of what it was like to build a life for himself that was actually his. And sure, his parents footed a lot of the bills, but he could take comfort in the fact that everything else - his degree, his internships, his career - was his own.

But now, standing in the low lights of a gallery financed by his father, surrounded by well-dressed people that didn’t give a shit about him, on a night that should’ve been a reminder that this was what he was meant to be doing with his life, he understood that it had never been his to live.

“David.”

He turned around, blinking out of his dissociating shame spiral. Blaine, looking shockingly put-together in a sharp tux and a man bun, was offering him a champagne flute.

“Hi,” he murmured, accepting the drink. “Ronnie told me she’s interested in the chartreuse study, but she has to sleep on it.” He wondered whether his dad was still bankrolling her to cut these checks to him now, even five years later. He can’t say he’d be surprised. “She said it’ll go great in her front hall.”

“Good. Thank God at least _someone_ recognizes quality when they see it.”

When David only hummed in halfhearted affirmation, Blaine brought a hand to his shoulder with a puzzled look. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Just as David was opening his mouth to tell him everything – he’s taken aback by his own willingness to unload his issues like this, especially onto _Blaine_ – they were interrupted by a man who David could only describe as a well-dressed basketball player. Impossibly tall, with dark skin and a chiseled square-cut jaw, he swooped in between them and planted a kiss on Blaine’s cheek before straightening up and wrapping a long arm around his waist.

“Hey babe. Sorry, I got caught up talking to a girl that knows my old boss,” he said, his voice smooth and low. He sure looked happy to see Blaine; Blaine significantly less so in return. “Hey, you’re the gallerist, right? Love what you’ve done with the place.”

_Hey babe._ David could barely think over the pressure building inside his skull. “Um. Blaine? You wanna introduce me to your _friend?”_

Blaine had the apologetic look of a teen boy whose parents just caught him with a bottle of vodka under his bed. “Uh…David, this is Nico. My boyfriend.”

Of course he is, of course he is, of _course_ he is. This wasn’t kicking him while he was down; this was running him over with a steamroller. “Your _boyfriend!_ How _cute_ is _that?”_ David practically squealed in feigned excitement, because any display of emotion more sincere than that would’ve led him to publically lose his shit. “Well, I’d like to _personally_ thank you for coming out tonight. We here at Rose Gallery are _deeply_ indebted to your patronage.”

“Um, we’re gonna- I should probably go, uh, mingle some more, yeah?” Blaine stammered as he took a few nervous steps backward, clearly fearful of David’s wrath. But of course he couldn’t have known that David had no intentions of saying anything, no matter how bad he might’ve wanted to, because throwing a huge scene at an event he worked so hard to put together wasn’t on brand for him at all. A brand being marionetted by his dad, maybe, but a brand he’d committed to all the same.

“But I was only just starting to talk to David, babe,” said Nico, sounding a bit irritated as he stood his ground.

“Oh, no, go ahead,” David insisted, having negative interest in continuing with this circus of personal torture. “Go mingle. With your _boyfriend.”_

To that, Nico just shrugged and turned away, offering his arm to Blaine. He accepted, giving David one last regretful glance before walking off to go sell more terrible painting of rotten apples.

David felt his breath coming in shallow gasps as he took in the sight of the party, all these people gathered under one roof because of him, and wished so desperately that he could be anywhere but here. Of course, it would be wildly unprofessional for a host to leave their own event, so the back office would have to do for now.

He can’t be sure how long he sits there on the dirty floor, a perfect recreation of Wednesday’s existential crisis, letting the dust in the air clog his respiratory tract. It’s only until the murmur of festivities outside the door dies down completely that he feels stable enough to reemerge. He’d help with cleanup; the catering crew wouldn’t bring up how he looked like a certified hot mess, and that was for the best.

He opened the door and stepped back into the gallery to find the place nearly empty of guests, except for Blaine and Nico huddled near the door. Nico sees him first and waves genially from across the room before ducking outside, probably to catch their Uber, leaving David and Blaine alone.

Blaine looked genuinely upset, which was sort of rare in these situations for David. “Listen, I–”

“Your contract’s up on July 2nd,” David responded as coolly as he could muster. “You can come clear out by close of business. Anything not spoken for will become part of my permanent collection.”

Blaine shook his head and sighed, placing one hand on the door handle. “I just– I’m sorry, David. I really am.”

David crossed his arms, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yeah. I’m sure you are.”

Blaine didn’t say anything else, his gaze turned downwards. After a beat, he turned and pushed the door open, heading to the car waiting out front. And that was it.

David made himself wait until the sleek black sedan pulled away from the curb before breaking down. He sank down to the floor with his chest heaving uncontrollably, balancing on the balls of his feet as he hugged his knees. Something deep in his ribcage ached, tender and exposed, and he cried until the fabric over his knees was damp with his tears.

“Trouble in paradise?”

He hadn’t even heard Patrick come through the door, but there he was, standing over him in a too-casual sport coat over a green dress shirt. David’s first instinct was to quickly straighten up and try to play off his misery, but a larger part of him decided he was done pretending that this was all fine.

“Well, this place isn’t so much a paradise as it is a palace of lies,” he replied weakly, his voice shot. “What are you doing here?”

Patrick leaned down and offered David his hand, which he cautiously accepted, and helped David to his feet. “Well, I wanted to see what this fancy art business was all about, but now I see that it leaves a lot to be desired.”

“That is certainly one way to put it.”

Patrick smiled at him, gentle and compassionate, before reaching into the pocket of his coat. “Here,” he said, pulling out a brown Starbucks napkin and putting it in David’s outstretched hand. “Wanna talk about it?”

David sniffled and dabbed his teary eyes with the napkin. “Well, I’m having what the Internet would refer to as ‘first-world problems,’ so, you know. It’s nothing.”

Patrick clicked his tongue, looking skeptical. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, with a level of empathy David knew he didn’t deserve.

He contemplated lying, deflecting with humor to shield Patrick from the noxious dumpster fire that was his personal life, but somehow he knew Patrick wouldn’t take that for an answer. “You’re witnessing my worst mental breakdown in years, probably. Turns out that discovering your entire professional career is a sham and that you slept with a taken man will do that to you.”

Patrick whistled, quiet and low. “I mean, yeah, that’ll do it. If I were in your shoes I’d be doing the same thing.”

The fact that he didn't bother to correct 'man' to 'woman' was not lost on David. “That’s comforting, actually.”

He smiled at David again and brought a hand up to his upper arm, his fingers settling in the little groove just below David’s shoulder blade before letting go. “Listen, I’m sorry you’re having a rough time. If there’s anything I can do to help–”

“Actually, there is,” David said, becoming painfully aware in that moment how tight his chest felt. He couldn’t pin an emotion onto it, like fear or embarrassment, but he welcomed the discomfort. Because after all this time working in an industry surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about him, _finally_ here was someone who cared. He didn’t know why Patrick cared, or how, but just the fact that he cared at all was enough for David to just say _fuck it._ “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided I’d really like your help. With my consignment expansion. Because now I know that there’s no way I could ever feasibly do it on my own, so I need your help.”

Saying that aloud – _I need your help –_ felt like a death sentence to David, and he allowed himself a moment to shut his eyes and pretend like this didn’t just happen. But when he opened them again, Patrick was still smiling at him.

“Well, I’m flattered you would ask,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but frankly, I’m surprised you’d be so willing to accept help from someone who’s so clearly trying to rope you into a phishing scheme.”

David found himself grinning through the crippling humiliation. “Oh my _God,_ let’s _please_ just collectively forget I said that to you.”

“Mm, no can do. You can’t just ask me to _forget_ being disrespected like that.”

There was a moment just then where David, against every warm instinct his parents froze out of him, felt the overwhelming urge to throw his arms around Patrick in a bear hug. But that would be weird.

_If you’ll let me._

He’s been letting other people run his life for as long as he could remember. Now it was time to let someone help him build something he could call his own.

“Well, could you try? Because I don’t function well when there’s resentment in my work environment.”

Patrick’s face split into a laugh, little crow’s feet folding at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I can try.”

“Good.”

David noted (very briefly) that Stevie had, like, kind of been right. About the “not everyone’s out to get him” thing, not the corporate closet case thing. He just needs to make sure that he never, ever admits it to her. God knows he’d never hear the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and to those who left nice comments on the first chapter! They make my heart happy during this quarantine time :) Have a great day!


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